


try to make it work

by Anna_Blossom



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Not Happy, Partial Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 02:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14125845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Blossom/pseuds/Anna_Blossom
Summary: Five times Moira interrupts Angela in her laboratory in various states of undress (and the one time she was still fully clothed)((my piece for the owfemslashexchange))





	try to make it work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wrote/gifts).



> For the_wrote!
> 
> prompt was "Moira/Mercy - working in the lab"

1.

The first time Morrison takes Moira to meet her, Ziegler’s standing half-naked in her lab, the top half of her Valkyrie suit dismantled on the table in front of her.

She takes in the sight of a bare back, pale and smooth and with light blonde hair covering the tops of the shoulders, long legs clad in skintight black material and—

Morrison curses beside her.

 _“Jack Morrison,”_ Ziegler says, charming voice sweet with poison, barely looking over her shoulder with a tight-lipped smile. “How many times have I told you to _knock before entering_?”

When Moira glances at her companion, he’s already turned around with his face in his hands.

 _No wonder Reyes calls him ‘boy scout’_ , she thinks, his half-hidden face flushed red from seeing a woman half-naked from behind. She barely stops her lips from ticking upward, only to notice the woman staring at her rather pointedly.

Belatedly realizing her rudeness, Moira turns around as well.

The room’s interior seems to glow under the bright fluorescent lights. The numerous shelves she could see along the white walls make the room seem cozier somehow, what with the various books and documents and knickknacks stacked on them.

She hears a zipper closing, and then that charming voice. “You can turn around now.”

Doing so, Moira takes in the rest of the laboratory. Other than the metal table in the middle of the room, a medical bed sits beside a computer table near a corner, and opposite that, three raised platforms with mannequins, two of which are donning what she assumes are prototype suits.

And of course, there’s the pretty little blonde, chastising the Strike-Commander himself about ‘knocking’ and ‘privacy’.

Minutes later, after Morrison finished the introductions and left them to take care of the rest, Moira smiles at Ziegler.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Ziegler,” she says, as charming as she can be. “I must admit, as far as first impressions go, yours was certainly… memorable.”

The good doctor actually flushes pink at that, and Moira finds herself captivated with the sight.

“I guess ‘memorable’ is a word for it,” Ziegler says. “I didn’t know you were coming today, Dr. O’Deorain. Jack didn’t exactly warn me.”

“I noticed,” Moira replies, making sure to flash a smile as she extends her hand out. _And I’ll thank him for it later._ “I daresay you’re not as intimidating as the media makes you seem.”

She watches as the cool politeness melts away slightly, a smile forming on Dr. Ziegler’s lips as she takes Moira’s hand. “And you’re more charming than expected, Dr. O’Deorain. It’s a pleasure making your acquaintance. I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise, Dr. Ziegler,”

2.

Unfortunately, business takes up both their time, and Moira gets no chance to explore any interesting possibilities with the good doctor. They’d met a few times the past week, but the longest conversation they had lasted about five minutes before Moira got called away by Reyes. Still, she saw Angela blushing over her shoulder after she’d complimented her hair, so she counted that as a win.

Now, however, Moira seeks Angela for more professional reasons. She walks up to her door clutching a holopad and frowning at the numbers, knocking three times. “Angela, if I may bother you for a moment.”

When no reply comes, she frowns. Pressing her ear to the door, she hears muffled German curses.

“Angela? Are you alright?”

Nothing but silence comes from within the room for a long moment, and Moira’s just about to call out once more when she hears Angela’s reply.

“Come in.”

Stepping in, she sees, for the first time, Angela donning the full Valkyrie suit. White highlights blue as the suit runs down skintight around her chest, then smoothes out into a flowing skirt with two side slits. Spandex boots reach up until the tops of her thighs, where Moira could barely see the same black materials that covered Angela’s legs the first time they met.

The heels do make her raise a brow, but if there’s one thing she learned about Angela, it’s that she values aesthetic just as much as functionality.

When she looks up at Angela’s face, she sees her shift subtly, a faint pink on the tops of her cheeks.

Realizing that she must’ve been leering, Moira clears her throat.

“Dr. Ziegler, I had a question about the budget Overwatch presented for the medical research department.”

“Ah, yes,” she goes forward, seemingly grateful to get rid of the silence. “Show me.”

Moira O’Deorain works for Blackwatch as a weapons and technologies developer. Máire O’Doherty works for Overwatch as a medical research consultant. Reyes managed to convince Morrison that Moira needed the fake name because of the damaged reputation her real one carried. She soured at that, but had to admit that it was a good excuse. Far from the full truth, but true enough that both Morrison and Angela believed it. As for the rest of Overwatch, even when everyone’s heard her name in the news, hardly anyone knows her face.

A minute into the discussion, one of Angela’s pseudo-wings jerks back, the sudden movement pulling her off-balance. She would’ve crashed into the floor if Moira didn’t grab her arm and yank her up back on her feet, a couple inches closer compared to how they were standing moments ago.

Moira’s lips thin as Angela apologizes, albeit the blush on her face lessens her ire. The second time it happens though, the sight of her darkened cheeks does little to placate her.

“I’m sorry. The wings are still under testing. Functional, but I’m still ironing out a few—”

“That’s all well and good,” she interrupts, “but may I ask why you haven’t removed the suit?”

Blue eyes dart away, and Moira watches as Angela chews on her lip.

“… It’s stuck.”

A moment passes, stretching out into a long silence, broken only by the sound of a strangled snort escaping Moira’s lips.

Immediately, she presses a palm to her mouth, but it’s too late to stop the rest of her laughter. Her shoulders shake as she watches Angela’s face darken into tomato red, her embarrassment only making her laugh harder.

Minutes after Moira’s amusement has dwindled down into giggles, Angela asks with arms crossed, “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Of course, of course,” she answers, mouth still split into a grin as she motions for Angela to turn around. “The great Angela Ziegler, research extraordinaire and medical prodigy,” Moira says as she pries off the exoskeleton of her wings, “bested by her own suit.”

Angela glares over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, and Moira smiles back, internally deciding that those pretty blue eyes look even prettier up close.

“But if you want me to keep this incident a secret, I’m going to expect some compensation,” she teases, loosening the side straps that hold her suit together. “Nothing big, just some—”

“—dinner and a movie?” Angela finishes for her, tone wry as she shrugs off the top of her suit, leaving nothing but black gloves and the tight white shirt underneath it.

Moira chuckles, their eyes meeting as Angela turns around to face her fully. “Actually, I was going to say coffee and conversation, but dinner and a movie sounds just as lovely.”

“Well then,” Angela says, peeling off her gloves and setting them aside without looking away, “I’d hate it if people would suddenly start offering to remove my suit for me.”

“Present company excluded, I hope.”

She laughs, sounding especially sweet to Moira’s ears.

“You’re very bold, Dr. O’Deorain.”

“Yet you’re the one stepping closer towards me,” Moira says, watching as Angela closes the distance between them to only a few inches. “I’m thinking you like my audacity, Dr. Ziegler.”

“Maybe,” Angela shoots her a cheeky grin, head tilted to the side. “Are you free Saturday night?”

3.

Saturday night, they progressed from Dr. Ziegler and Dr. O’Deorain to Angela and Moira. Their relationship differed from the ones Moira had before. For one, the people she dated back then weren’t half as brilliant as the good doctor. Angela challenges her in ways others could not or would not, surprising her with unexpected knowledge and understanding of genetic manipulation. They’d debate about different theoretical issues and ventures, topics ranging from practicality to ethicality.

Although Moira’s making it a habit to avoid any further discussion about ethics, what with Angela’s unbending moral compass and Moira’s own indifference to the subject. The first time the topic was put on the table, it ruined their coffee date.

Excluding that one incident, everything else has been going quite well for the past three months, the two of them fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Moira enters the lab with two coffees in hand and a bandage over her left eye. She leans against the doorway for a while, watching Angela calibrate the wings for her new suit, the golden appendages lengthening and shortening individually as she makes adjustments.

“I must say,” Moira purrs as she strides towards her, bending down to press a brief kiss against her cheek, “seeing you in nothing but a bra and wings is nice, but I look forward to seeing the whole outfit.”

Angela giggles, not looking up from her work. “If all goes well, you won’t have to wait long.”

Humming noncommittally, Moira makes for Angela’s desk, placing one of the cups there, before turning to watch her lover finish up.

Minutes later, Moira regretfully watches as she takes off the wings and pulls on a shirt, mussing her hair in the process. Angela straightens her back, rolling her shoulders and sighing in relief.

“I think that’s enough to earn a coffee break.”

When she finally looks up, the sides of her mouth tilt downwards. She moves towards Moira, a hand coming up to cup her cheek, her thumb gently grazing the pad covering her left eye.

“What happened?”

 _A miscalculated self-experiment_. “Lab accident,” she answers, the lie effortlessly sliding off her tongue.

Angela frowns becomes more pronounced, and she shakes her head. “Sit down on the bed and take off the gauze pad, please,” she says, already reaching for her medical kit.

Moira does, wincing as the gauze pulls on the tender skin underneath, dried blood making it stick.

“ _Mein gott_.”

She feels soft hands on her face, tilting her head as Angela leans forward to inspect the wound. Gentle fingers caress the wrinkled red skin, bits of blood already hardening into scabs across it.

“A lab accident, Moira? Are you certain?”

Moira takes care not to stiffen under her touch, her heterochromatic eyes staring back into Angela’s own blue ones. There’s accusation hidden beneath the concern, and it irritates her.

“Of course.” She schools her face into a smile, eyes full of mirth. “You’re not the only one who makes mistakes from time to time.”

Clever as always, Angela narrows her eyes. “I thought there was to be no mention of that incident, considering I took you out to dinner and a movie.”

“Yes, there was that agreement,” Moira’s smile widens, “but that was only for the _first_ time—”

Angela shoves her down the bed, cheeks red as she busies herself with looking through the contents of her medical kit. Laughter spills from Moira’s lips as she pushes herself back up, dying down into giggles when Angela, still huffing, comes back to apply a small patch of yellow gel over her wound.

“Apologies,” she says, eyes fluttering shut when the cold tingling relief of the nanotech starts to take effect, leaning against the warm palm curving over her cheek, “but you look so adorable flushed.”

“Yes, well— I—”

Cracking an eye open, she sees said flush spreading over Angela’s cheeks, her eyes wide and staring at Moira’s mouth. Testing a theory, she licks her lips, feeling smug when Angela gulps at the sight.

Noticing this, Angela groans, hand falling away. “You are terrible.”

“So I’ve been told,” Moira replies easily, reaching for her coffee, watching as Angela rolls her eyes before reaching for her own cup.

They drink the rest of their coffee in quiet conversation. Talk of Gabriel Reyes soon leads to Blackwatch’s newest recruits, and Moira nearly corrects her about a few details before holding her tongue.

 _I only know what Angela tells me_ , she reminds herself, covering up her near stumble with a sip of coffee. _A research consultant has no business knowing about Blackwatch._

Thankfully, Angela moves on from the topic, instead ranting about the recent budget constraints.

“I mean, I understand where Jack’s coming from,” she says, fingers tapping over the white biodegradable plastic cup as she talks. “Ever since Overwatch lost contact with Ecopoint: Antarctica, the UN’s been pressuring him to somehow make up for the lost data and research. But taking out money set aside for medical research?”

“Mm.” Moira takes the cup from Angela’s hands, setting both aside on the table. “Even if they had the budget, it’s near impossible to do so without skilled scientists. Unfortunate, since they were the ones sent to Antarctica in the first place.”

Angela sighs, silent as she stares at a craft snowman standing on one of the numerous shelves.

 _She knew them_ , Moira observes as grief colors her face, painting pained lines on her brow and on the corners of her mouth, _or at least one of them_.

She reaches for one of Angela’s hands, squeezing meaningfully, and the way sorrow fades from her face is a gentle relief.

“You know you could tell me anything.” Moira stares at her, fully sincere. “Anything.”

Angela smiles at her, soft and thankful, squeezing her hand in return, but for a brief moment, Moira sees a flicker of unease in those blue orbs.

“I hope you know that I’m willing to do the same for you,” she tucks a strand of blond hair behind an ear, a nervous tick. “I will listen and protect your secrets best I can.”

There’s that quiet accusation again. Surreptitiously woven between her words, but it’s there.

Disquiet begins to form in Moira’s mind, but she mustn’t let it show. She smiles, the new scar around her eye itching suddenly.

“I know you will,” she says. _But I won’t tell you._

4.

Angela snores.

This is a fact Moira finds out a few days later as she enters Angela’s unusually quiet lab, broken only by the soft grunts and snorts coming from the medical bed in the corner.

And there, lying face down on the bed, is Angela, arms curled up and pinned underneath her own chest. She’s still wearing the boots and muted gold leggings, Moira notes with amusement, as well as her neckguard and the sleek black top she wears underneath her suit.

Otherwise, the rest of the Valkyrie suit lays discarded beside the bed or on top of the closest chair.

Moira carefully picks up those pieces, moving quietly across the room to place them on one of the mannequins on the opposite wall. When that’s done, she goes back to Angela’s side, seating herself on the now empty office chair.

Angela shifted in her sleep sometime during Moira’s cleanup, now in a fetal position. Her hair’s falling out of her ponytail, and a line of drool dribbles down one side of her open mouth as she snorts. _Charming._

Moira lets her hand wander towards the messy blonde locks on her forehead, pushing them back and away from her face.

“Angela,” she whispers, lips curving into a smile when the snoring stops abruptly. “Wake up, dear.”

“Mmm.” She stirs, head lifting as she looks around with bleary eyes. She blinks once, twice, before her gaze settles on Moira. “Wie spät ist es?”

Moira quirks her brow. Angela groans, sitting up and cracking her neck.

“What time is it?” she repeats, already removing her neckguard and gloves.

“Quarter after one. You missed lunch.”

 “I did, didn’t I?” Angela grimaces, wiping away her drool with the back of her hand, standing with a tired mutter of, “I’m going to go wash up.”

Moira nods, eyes trained on the barely visible swelling of her eyelids as Angela turns and enters the connecting washroom, the door sliding behind her with a soft click.

Angela crying is nothing new. It’s how she copes.

Some drink. Some smoke. Others spar or take on some physical activity.

Angela Ziegler cries.

But never in public. It’s always been behind closed doors and shuttered windows.

So when Angela told her all about her parents and how they died with tears streaking down her cheeks, Moira felt astounded by the amount of trust Angela placed on her. That night, Moira found herself in Angela’s bed for the first time, holding Angela’s wracking frame close to her chest until sleep found both of them.

With nothing to do until Angela came back, Moira busies herself with cleaning up the lab. She gathers a few scattered papers here and there, stacks some books left strewn about. She spies a sealed brown envelope on her worktable, hidden beneath a few books. There’s a blue sticky note on it, chicken scratch writing.

‘Read this when you start having doubts. – JM’

There’s a hiss of a door sliding open, and the soft tapping of footsteps. Moira puts down the folder along with the stack of books she was holding and turns around.

Angela changed into her normal clothes. Comfortable flats, dark brown slacks and a simple yellow blouse topped with her labcoat. She glances at the table behind Moira, a brief look of alarm crossing her face, before it disappears just as quickly.

“You didn’t have to clean up after me.”

Moira shrugs. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. But,” she gives her a onceover, “are you alright?”

Angela smiles, a small uptick of her lips. “I’ll be fine. It’s… nothing new.”

“You’re sure?”

Her smile goes tight. “Yes. I wouldn’t hide anything from you, Moira. Shall we get going?”

Moira inhales sharply, opening her mouth to reply, but Angela’s already brushing past her and out of the lab.

5.

Angela apologizes to her after a few days, stating bad mood and fatigue as her reasons, but the damage has been done. All Moira hears and sees from her now is the sanctimonious undertone of her voice whenever they debate and the dubious glances whenever Moira mentions her work.

What used to be enjoyable conversation has turned into a minefield of words. Even the smallest slip of the tongue becomes a reason for an argument.

She doesn’t know when soundless accusations and growing distrust made its way into their relationship.

In fact, Moira doesn’t even know what caused Angela’s suspicions, not to mention the exact nature of those suspicions. There is absolutely no way she knows she’s part of Blackwatch. Gabriel made sure only a few of his people knew of her membership, and then took measures so that those agents don’t tell anyone else. Especially Genji Shimada and Jesse McCree.

She doesn’t particularly care about the cyborg. Of course, she can’t deny how interesting it would be to have him as a test subject, flesh fused machine, but Moira doesn’t think she’d even be able to touch him at his current mental state without a blade coming up to slice her throat.

Jesse McCree, on the other hand, would be the perfect test subject. His kill count exceeds a good number of other Blackwatch agents, both long-range and close combat. Just imagine what else he could do with the ability to move around undetected. Like smoke.

She tried selling him the idea once, only to get a growled refusal and a warning.

That’s why when Agent McCree _willingly_ enters her lab and tells her to talk some sense into Angela, she goes immediately.

_What did your fool heart do this time?_

The sight that greets her there worries and angers her within seconds.

Angela sits on the medical bed, the black undershirt she wears underneath the Valkyrie suit pulled up to reveal a ghastly bruise covering most of her abdomen, her staff and a medical kit lying on the bed beside her. She looks up with such a weary smile that Moira couldn’t stop her anger from dissipating.

She walks over, kneeling to inspect the bruise, tongue clicking. “The state of you…”

She gets a huff of laughter in reply, and then a teasing reply. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad does it look?”

“Bad,” Moira reaches for the kit, taking out a biotic emitter. “Any particular reason you haven’t used your staff?”

“Out of power,” she replies, stifling a groan of relief as the nanites start to take effect. “There wasn’t anywhere safe to replace the power cells, and I still haven’t been able to effectively incorporate the generator—”

“Later,” Moira cuts her off. Now isn’t the time for talk about schematics and upgrades. “Your staff may not be working, but there were other medics.”

Angela shakes her head. “There was no time for that.” She sucks in a breath when long fingers gently press down, trying to find cracked ribs. “There were soldiers and civilians out there—”

“Then what about on the carrier?” Moira snaps back, anger returning. “If I recall, it’s a four-hour flight back to base. Why didn’t any of them check on you during the flight?”

Angela looks away, hands clenching on the sheets. “There were still patients who had severe wounds—”

Moira shoots up, temper rising. “And you didn’t consider yourself one of them?! You have _broken ribs_ , for God’s sake! Possible internal bleeding! What’s the point of being a hero if you get yourself killed in the process?! Just because your parents died saving others, doesn’t mean you have to do the same!”

Angela flinches back, biting her lip, knuckles white.

Moira immediately draws back as well, cringing at her own words. _That was uncalled for._

But despite knowing that, she couldn’t take back her words. She learned early in their relationship that for all of Angela’s brilliance, she is and always will be a fool at heart, one who sincerely believes the lives of others’ are worth more than her own.

 _You’re wrong, you pious fool_.

Moira kneels down before her once more, an apology on her tongue.

_You’re worth more than a thousand of them, and even if you were to die to save millions, it still wouldn’t be worth losing you._

“I’m—”

“I know,” Angela interrupts, voice so soft Moira almost doesn’t hear her. “I know, alright? I know. I know there are agents who think I’m too naïve and soft to work in the field. I know there are reporters who describe me wanting to put others before myself as a _hero complex_.”

Wet blue eyes stare into Moira’s, so tired and weary Moira can’t help but want to reach up and wipe away the moisture from them.

“I know, okay? And I’m trying not to care about what they say, but,” Angela looks down once more, blonde hair curtaining her face, “but when _my friends_ says I’m too soft, when Jack and McCree say I’m too naïve, when… when _you_ say it…”

When Angela looks back up at her with hurt written all over her face, Moira realizes that she might hate herself for eternity just for being the cause of that pained expression.

No further conversation comes after that, Moira tending to Angela’s wounds in silence while the good doctor keeps her eyes away from hers. Minutes later, she straightens, knees aching slightly from kneeling too long. She hovers in front of Angela, unsure, until her lover ( _can she even call her that anymore?_ ) stands up and brushes past her, staff in hand.

“Angela,” she calls out, not knowing what to say but wanting to be heard anyway.

“I have to finish my work,” Angela replies, not even looking as she places her staff on her worktable. Moira finds her breath escaping her, and not in a good way. When they started this, they promised to make time for each other, to not let work get in the way of their budding relationship.

But that was before. And this is now, after Moira essentially derided and disrespected her beliefs.

So she straightens her back, bids Angela good night, and leaves.

When the door closes behind her, she pretends not to hear the choked sobs that follow in the wake of her departure, lest she ends up hanging herself with her own heartstrings.

+1

Three days later, Moira finds herself in front of Angela’s door once more. There’s no one else but her in the hallway, the lights turned off for the night, but a faint glow spills out from behind the door, lighting the tops of her shoes.

She stares at the ground for a bit longer, before gathering her nerves and knocking twice, the sound seemingly echoing in the dark.

“Angela?” she asks, keeping her voice soft. “We need to— can I talk to you?”

A minute passes, then another.

Just as she’s about to turn and leave, she hears her answer.

“Come in.”

Bracing herself, Moira opens the door and steps in.

Angela stands, half-turned towards the holo-screen floating above her worktable, the pulsing light painting her face with both faint glows and shadows. She’s still wearing her Valkyrie suit, encased in white and gold and Moira feels an impalpable tug at her chest at the sight of messy blonde hair and tired, _tired_ blue eyes.

Fighting the urge to run, Moira takes a single step forward, and waits.

Angela stares at her for a moment longer, before turning back towards the holo-screen. _A news report_ , Moira realizes numbly, _about Blackwatch._

“You never told me,” Angela says. “Eight months together and you never told me.”

“I wasn’t allowed to.”

The excuse feels weak, even before it leaves her mouth. She must think the same, because Angela lets out a singular laugh, sharp like a knife digging into her side.

“And when has that ever stopped you?” She finally turns around again, and Moira’s heart wrenches at the sight of her face. It’s funny how pain never bothers her until she sees Angela wear it.

“You’ve never bothered to follow rules before, always finding a way to work around them or ignore them completely,” Angela continues. “Surely telling me you’re part of Blackwatch isn’t the worst thing you could’ve done.”

“Reyes would’ve known—”

“Reyes _knows_ I know about Blackwatch!” Angela screams, the sound as sudden as the wetness in her eyes. “I know about Reyes, about Genji, about Jesse, and _you_ _knew_ _I knew! So why couldn’t you tell me?!_ ”

Moira can’t speak, can’t say anything, guilt lodged in her throat and there’s nothing she could do but take another step forward.

“I suspected it, you know? I knew you were never entirely truthful with me, but I trusted you enough not to dig. And the worst part is that I would’ve,” her voice breaks off as tears begin to streak down her face, “I could’ve forgiven everything else if only you told me!”

Everything else?

“Angela, please listen—”

“No,” she backs away, swatting away Moira’s hands when they reach out to try and hold her. “You don’t get to tell me to listen. You don’t get to touch me after what you’ve done.”

When she backs away, she hits her worktable, a few papers scattering down towards the ground. That’s when Moira understands what ‘everything else’ meant.

Those are _her_ papers. Her laboratory reports, her data, her experiments. Anger comes bubbling to the surface.

“Where’d you get those?” she asks, voice dark.

“A friend gave them to me.”

The sealed envelope. JM.

“You had no right,” she hisses out between clenched teeth.

“And you don’t have any limitations, do you, Moira? You experimented on rabbits, but that wasn’t enough to get results, was it? So you went ahead and experimented on people.”

Moira bristles at her accusatory tone. There it is. That holier-than-thou attitude, that moral superiority she’d come to expect from Angela. That antagonizes her more than anything.

“What I did, I did for the advancement of science. I did it for the sake of humankind.”

“You’ve _never_ cared about humankind,” she says, eyes still full of tears and voice still full of pain and—

God, Moira wishes she would just _stop_ _talking_ —

“Look at what you’ve done to yourself!” Angela cries out, near hysterical as she gestures towards Moira’s left eye. “There is a reason why there’s a ban on human experimentation, why we put limits on research! You can’t just risk—”

She grits her teeth, turning away. “Let it go, Angela. You don’t understand—”

“Then _explain_ it to me,” Angela grasps her shoulder, trying to force her to face her, “Look at me, and tell me why you would do this to Gabriel, why you would do this to yourself! For once, stop making excuses and just give me the truth—”

_“ENOUGH!”_

Moira twists around with a sudden flash of dark energy whipping through the air, Angela immediately letting go of her shoulder and backing away as if hurt.

 _She_ is _hurt_ , Moira realizes when Angela lets out a hiss of pain, clutching her wrist. A ragged tear runs across Angela’s glove, and what skin could be seen underneath looks gray and lifeless

She stares, aghast, even as the nanites in her Valkyrie suit gather around the skin of her hand and start bringing it back to its natural color.

_I hurt her._

The sudden awareness of this fact and a thousand other facts hit Moira like whiplash.

She hurt Angela. And the pain she dealt wasn’t only physical.

Angela trusted her enough to cry in front of her, to seek comfort from her.

What Moira thought were soundless accusations were nothing but quiet encouragements because Angela trusted her enough to not voice her doubts and _wait_ for _Moira_ to give her the truth instead.

And she never gave it to her.

Instead, she gets the truth from a news report on international television, from a sealed brown envelope that was labeled ‘when you start having doubts’ she opened only recently, despite having doubts long before.

Her insides twist with terrible guilt, tearing her from the inside and she wishes she could take it back, take it all back and tell Angela from the start because she’s never meant to _hurt her—_

“Leave.”

No.

“Please, Moira.”

No, no, no, no, no it can’t end like this. There must be something she can do to apologize, to make up for all she’s done—

She takes a step forward, and Angela shrinks away, _terrified_ of her.

“Angela, please— I’m sorry,” Moira takes another step, and Angela’s wings flare up behind her in warning.

“ _Don’t_.”

“I can’t— please don’t make me leave. I’ll make it up to you, I promise, just,” Moira’s voice cracks with emotion, the sound of it strange to her own ears. “Please. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

A small part of her wants to sneer at her behavior, but right now, she couldn’t care less. If she has to beg for Angela to stay, she will.

Angela glares at her for a long moment, eyes like steel and mouth pressed into a straight line, acting as if she stands before an enemy instead of her lover.

“You’d tell me anything to keep me,” she says, and Moira’s heart drops like a stone because those words sound like finality, not forgiveness. “You’d feed me white lies and half-truths, but you would _never_ tell me everything. So please, Moira, just leave me alone.”

Her chest feels tight, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. It can’t end like this.

“If you don’t leave, then I will.”

Angela shoulders past her, jaw set and wings flared.

Moira wants to call out, keep pleading and begging for her to listen. But then Angela’s words come rushing back.

_‘You don’t get to tell me to listen.’_

She reaches out instead, desperate with the ~~inevitable~~ possible loss of one of the few people she’s ever loved, before her gaze gets caught the tear on Angela’s glove.

_‘You don’t get to touch me after what you’ve done.’_

She can’t do anything. She holds her tongue and pulls back her hand, watching helplessly as the door closes behind Angela, leaving her alone in the dark laboratory.

She falls to her knees, an all-encompassing numbness spreading from her chest to her brain, hearing nothing but the slow beating of her heart.

 

It’s over.

 

Angela left her.

 

Angela’s gone.

 

_Angela’s gone._

 

Moira _screams_.

Sound rushes back into her ears. The low hum of electricity in the walls, the news report about Blackwatch on loop—

Her sight clears. There’s paper scattered all around her, torn books and shredded pieces of her gathered data—

She feels something wet. She wipes her cheeks of something salty and wet and sees sticky red between her fingernails—

She stands up, legs shaking like a newborn foal’s, and looks.

Various objects and miscellaneous items from the shelves lay strewn about, as if a hurricane came through. The mannequins that hold the prototype suits look as if someone tore them to shreds, limbs ripped from the torso. The worktable’s overturned, the holoscreen flickering in and out of existence. Several containers of Angela’s nanotech rest on the ground, broken and shattered.

Moira steadies herself, taking a deep breath and trying to remember what happened, and only getting vivid images of dark violet smoke and bright yellow light.

She looks at her hands, inhaling sharply when she sees the right pulsing with violent energy.

The left, however, radiates a softer golden glow. One that reminds her of Angela.

…

_Angela’s gone._

Moira closes her eyes.

_She left, and with good reason._

Now it’s Moira’s turn to move on.


End file.
